pH Balance

I came up with the idea of the short story an embarrassingly long time ago. Is it just coincidence that as I’m beginning to share it with the world that the Kohinoor is now a part of current events? Maybe if Rishi Sunak was as agro in Parliament about repatriation as he was about other issues we’d be getting somewhere.

And now, what you’ve been waiting all week for: the next chapter of the Kohinoor saga (prologue & chapter 1, in case you missed them)

CHAPTER II

Laila was frozen in place, forgetting the Kohinoor, forgetting how to speak, how to move. All she could do was try not to make direct eye contact with her father as he was trying to do the exact opposite. 

“Laila, could you excuse us, please,” her mother asked sternly.

“Lara, come on, we’re not in that much of a hurry,” her father said, fully stepping into the office. Laila managed to peel her feet from the floor and pivot backwards to the desk. She looked expectantly at her mother, refusing to move until she got an explanation. 

Even without Laila’s scheming, the Crown was in trouble. Dr. Croft didn’t trust the man with joint custody over their own daughter: how were they supposed to protect the most valuable diamond in the world? I can’t tell if having my father involved will make the heist easier or harder, Laila thought. Then again, I have no idea who he actually is and why the Crown trusts him with the Kohinoor. 

“This has to happen now,” the curator said firmly, ushering her daughter towards the door. “We can all sit and chat later,” she added in a voice that conveyed what she really thought of such an idea: it was never going to happen. On her way out, Laila stole one last glance at her father. He was shaking his head and harboring a small smile, as if her mother’s “final say” was only temporary. His expression suggested that Laila’s parents had grown accustomed to dealing with each others’ nonsense: that the two of them had, at some point, been like family. 

Ten minutes later, Laila was looking at her parents again. This time, though, she was sitting in a spare room in the archives, staring at the GoPro’s live feed streaming onto her laptop. Her hands were shaking as she synced her headphones to the audio, nervous about what she might find out about her parents and about her past. 

The past will be there forever, Laila reminded herself. Right now, I have to focus on learning more about the diamond. She still didn’t know where the it was going to be stored, what kind of security it would have, and when would be best to snatch it: and she was running out of time.

The audio finally connected, and she heard her mother grumbling and rummaging through files. His father looked at her silently from the other side of the desk. After a few more moments of heavy silence, he finally spoke.

“I can’t believe you didn’t trust me enough to tell me about Laila.” 

“Of course I couldn’t trust you! You lied to me—about everything,” Dr. Croft replied. “I don’t fault you for lying for a living, but your career choices make for an unfit father figure.”

“Our love was real, even if my story wasn’t.” Gag. Laila’s mother looked up from the filing cabinet, the mild rainstorm in her grey eyes turning into a category five typhoon. 

“Why are you really here?” Yes, get back to the Kohinoor, please. 

“I’m transporting the asset”

“How does an ex-MI6 operative—emphasis on ex—,” Dr. Croft said, almost sneering, “end up transporting the bloody Kohinoor from the Tower of London to the British Museum? Where his ex—emphasis again, on ex—happens to be in charge?”

“Someone needed a favor,” her father replied, resting his hands atop a chair. “And besides, I reconsidered my relationship to our imperialist nation once they let one of us on Downing Street”

“‘One of us’ as in an Indian, or ‘One of us’ as in your fellow daft prankster chum from your posh boarding school days?” 

“It’s hard to separate one from the other, Lara,” her dad said with a mischievous smile. “Back then, it was the headmaster. Now, it’s all of Parliament and the horrid Royals.”

“And now the PM has convinced MI6 to take you back?”

“Of course not—I wouldn’t rejoin that agency for all the money in the world. But I’ve proven that I can be trusted. That I see things differently now,” her father took a deep breath. “I realized we can change things without hurting anyone. Without being so… radial.” Dr. Croft raised her eyebrows. 

When Laila was a child, she would have given almost anything to see her parents together and to learn more about her dad. But she was so anxious out now that she couldn’t enjoy any of it. Each new piece of information was like a sucker punch to the gut: her father was ex-MI6, in with the government, and trusted by the Royals—even though he seemed to hate everyone but the PM. Who was her father, really? She still didn’t even know his name… 

“Did you know? About Laila?”

“That she existed?” Her father rolled his eyes. “Yes. I’m ex-MI6, remember?”

“Why didn’t you reach out before?”

“Lara, if I know anything about you, it’s that you need your space. Especially when it comes to me. You didn’t want me in the picture for a reason.”

“And now, transporting the Kohinoor—is it just a coincidence that you arrived when Laila’s latest project brought her back to the British Museum?”

“No, it’s not. I heard that she was working on Kate’s necklace and… ” He sat down and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m the ‘someone’ that needed the favor. When I saw that there was a chance for all three of us to be together, to just talk as a family, I leapt at it, and… ” his voice trailed off. It looked like he was struggling to get the rest of the words out of his mouth.

“And?”

“And now that I have somewhat of a different perspective, maybe we could all try being a family, whatever that looks like.” 

Laila almost slammed her laptop shut. Instead, she stood up and started marching back and forth behind her desk. Of course after over two decades of a drama-free family, I get hit with this bloody nonsense the same week I’m trying to do something with my short and insignificant life. Laila sat back down and started doing the “deep, calming breaths” suggested by her yoga-instructor flatmate. She was skeptical until now: she felt her heart rate slowing down, the heat in her face dissipating. 

Unlike her daughter, Dr. Croft was unfazed. It can’t be the first time she’s heard these words. They may as well have been the creak of the hardwood floor or the turn of her ceiling fan: you get used to certain sounds after a while, and then never notice them at all. 

“When does the asset arrive?” the curator asked, taking a seat and uncapping a felt-tip marker. She positioned its fine point over her desktop calendar, its squares filled with meticulous block print and a thick X drawn through each finished day.

“In four days. 9:30am Tuesday. Where will you be storing it?”

“In this office. There’s a safe I use for such acquisitions. There’s quite a few priceless artifacts in there right now.”

“Lara, it’s the Kohinoor. Not some pottery fragment from Ancient Cyprus,” her father said incredulously. “And you’re planning to keep it here?” Laila couldn’t believe what she was hearing either. Mum’s office! The diamond was as good as stolen. She wasn’t sure how to crack the safe in question, of course, but this was one place in the museum she could visit without looking suspicious at all. 

“Anything more intricate will attract too much attention. The less personnel involved, the better.” Dr. Croft replied confidently. “Besides, it’s fireproof, bomb-proof, and idiot proof—perfect for who the Crown decided to hire for this assignment.”

“Lara, darling, they hired both of us,” Laila’s father said, smiling. “Anyways, I’ll see you Tuesday.” A pause. “Unless you—” 

“Tuesday,” she said firmly. 

He left unceremoniously, closing the door quietly behind him. Dr. Croft shook her head and rose, using her hands to push herself up, as if the act required the last of her remaining strength. She stood there for a few minutes, taking deep breaths, staring at her hands beneath her. Then, she walked slowly over to a cabinet and pulled out an expensive-looking decanter and glass. She poured herself a generous portion of what looked like scotch. Laila had never seen her mother drink anything other than red wine (and champagne, at New Year’s). It felt wrong, watching her mother in the most private of moments, as she sipped from her glass pensively. Hidden or not, there were definitely no cameras (other than Laila’s) surveilling that office: her mother would rather the entire contents of the British Museum be stolen—or repatriated—than show even a small sliver of vulnerability.

Suddenly, Dr. Croft jumped to her feet. She had a strange look on her face as she walked towards the bookshelf. The very same bookshelf that the mask was on. Oh god. Oh no. Could they even trace the camera back to me? I have to start thinking of a cover-up story. And then other side-stories so the original story checks out. And find someone to watch this bloody cat in case I end up in jail tomorrow. Laila’s mother got closer and closer to the frame, the contours of her face getting sharper, the details on her clothing more visible. Even the deep yoga breaths couldn’t help Laila now. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her thighs and pressed her feet into the floor.

Dr. Croft then veered right as Laila let out the largest exhale of her life. Approaching the bookshelf, Laila’s mother grabbed the thickest, oldest, dustiest volume. Its yellow pages were barely bound together anymore. Laila’s mother made her way back to her desk, sat down on top of it, and kicked off her shoes. Laila could barely hear them hit the floor over the sound of her heartbeat ringing in her ears. 

Laila’s mother opened the book and took out a smaller slip of paper—an 8”x10” black-and-white photograph. Setting the book aside, she drained what was left of the glass. She gazed at the picture, as if in a trance, gripping it so hard there was sure to be a dent underneath her thumb. Laila couldn’t tell what—or who—was in the photograph. This surely has something to do with Dad and what happened between them all those years ago. Her mother tucked the photograph back in the book. From where she sat, Laila had a full view of her mother’s face. Her cheeks had a new shine to them, damp from a steady trickle of tears. This was the first time Laila had seen her mother cry. Diamond or no diamond, one thing’s for sure—I have to get my hands on that picture!

This Week’s Top 3

• Raees 🎞 – Godfather Part II vibes, but with Bollywood charm and dark mode SRK
• “Rush” by Arya Starr ✨ – I’ve been listening to a lot of Afrobeats while writing. One of my favorites lately.
• Truffle Mac @ Homeroom 🧀 – good food for a cold day